Red Sticks

By Jad Davis

A Note to the Reader,

"Are you aware of the consequences that will most certainly occur should your unraveling come up with the 'truth'? What will change in your life when you discover that what you learned, even as a youth, was a lie? Can you imagine a world in which there are no wrong doings, a place with worries of war simply being part

• Language: English
• Publisher: GoldTouch Press, LLC
• Release date: Jun 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781955347785

Jad Davis

Jad Davis is an investigative freelance writer. His novels are the result of years of research into the involvement with extraterrestrial life. Instead of referring to his work as "science fiction", Davis specifically focuses on "evidentiary conclusions" drawn from reported or written documents substantiating his opinion that the entire human race has been assisted by "aliens" since the beginning of this planet. His book, Sea Buzzards, simply reiterates that notion. The novelist lives in North Carolina with his family and two dogs. He spent many years in the teaching profession. He currently intends to follow his passion- writing.

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Red Sticks

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Jad Davis

Copyright © 2021 by Jad Davis.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2021910162

HARDBACK:    978-1-955347-77-8

Paperback:    978-1-955347-76-1

eBook:            978-1-955347-78-5

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

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Dedicated to:

George Walker

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Chapter One

The District of Columbia’s thermometers had flirted with a hundred degrees for nearly a week. Black billows of clouds backdropped with ferocious electrical shows, served as nothing more than a torturous tease for those living near the Potomac River. There was no rain in sight.

At 10:00 on Sunday morning, Paul Doggins stopped his buggy a few feet in front of ‘Mansion House Farm’s’ iron gate. Paul hopped out of his single horse drawn buggy and placed a bouquet of flowers in between a couple of the gate’s metal bars. He then got back into his fancy racing coach and rode east from there.

Negro George knocked on his master’s door. By the length of time it took the general to answer comingled with an assortment of high pitched giggles, the former president’s head slave knew his boss was not alone.

Top of the morning to you, George. What’s the matter? slurred George Washington through his closed bedroom door.

General, Mister Doggins put another bunch of flowers on the gate! Do you want me to fetch them for you, Sir? asked George.

"Thank you, Sir, that would be most appreciated. Also, while you’re doing that, kindly ask Joseph and Harry to escort Ms. Hastings back to the academy.

She dropped by last evening and I’m afraid the poor thing isn’t use to my whiskey. Please hurry; she’ll be late for vespers as it is!" instructed George Washington.

Paul Doggins was a Culper and a very good one at that. Something very important had happened; otherwise, he wouldn’t have so conspicuously delivered his message in broad daylight. The last time he had done such a thing was when the British put a price on his head.

Thirty three white roses had been tied very tightly in the day before’s VIRGINIA GAZETTE. Washington’s Culper gang number was, 711; it was printed in the top right-hand corner of the ‘Obituary Column’.

George poured himself a goblet full of his masterfully distilled bourbon and went searching for his spectacles. They were on his nightstand.

With the use of Franklin’s other key, President Washington was able to decipher the message pulled from an article regarding the bankruptcy of the Indian King Tavern in Baltimore.

Thomas DeWitt had written in July of that year, a laborious accounting of the reasons for the Inn’s eventual closing. In actuality however, the decoded message ‘told’ General Washington, America was about to be invaded by the Illuminati!

Another knock on the door jolted Washington back into a semiconscious state. It was his wife; Martha’s knuckle wrap was loud and rapid.

"Good morning, Husband! I hope Dorothy managed to find her way back to the school. I’m not sure if that woman’s sights aren’t set on you, my dear!

It is certainly evident she adores every dance she steals with you as well as a liquored up kiss, I’d guess!

What time did she leave, George?" bluntly asked the former First Lady.

"Darling, I’m not quite sure when Ms. Hastings left but I do remember asking George to have Harry and Joseph escort her back to the academy.

As far as her flirtations are concerned, I lavish each and every one of them! I am not the ‘red-headed wonder’ from yesteryear, you know!" smoothly said Washington.

Where are you going? It looks like you’re packing for a week! asked Martha.

I’m afraid it’s a Blue Dawn issue. I have to go to Fredricktown. Said George.

Is that why Paul Doggins dropped off those flowers this morning around ten o’clock? I believe that my reading club’s number one tale-spinner, Dorothy Hastings, managed to leave shortly after your bouquet’s arrival. I thought that might assist you with your sequencing issue! struck Martha.

"You are so atrociously beautiful when the green monster latches on to you! I love you with all of my heart, my precious one!

I’ll be back by Wednesday." Whispered George.

George Washington blew his wife a sugary kiss and then left for the stables. He planned to ride El Diablo because he was the only horse he owned that was tough enough to run a hundred and thirty eight miles.

Partidge Hill Inn had been rented for five days. Except for the Inn’s staff, Washington and his host were to be the only guests.

G.W. Snyder was sitting on the front porch when Washington rode up. It was dusk.

"Tis a lovely evening for a refreshing drink I’d say there, Mister Snyder! Said General Washington.

Indeed it is! Are you Doggins’ architect? asked Snyder.

I’m his land surveyor. Answered Washington.

Are you hungry, Mister President?

A little but mostly, I need a drink! responded George.

The two men sitting on the front porch got down to business. Both G.W. Snyder and George Washington poured through the writing of John Robison’s, Proofs of a Conspiracy Against All the Religions and Governments of Europe, Carried On in the Secret Meetings of Freemasons, Illuminati, and Reading Societies.

Snyder’s concern after the night’s reading was that some of the Masonic lodges in America might have caught the infection of the Illuminati’s plan to overturn all Government and all Religion!. He then asked a favor.

General, please find it within your power to prevent their horrid plan from corrupting the brethren of the lodges over which you preside!

Washington at that point quite drunk, replied to Mr. G.W. Snyder.

"The fact is, I preside over zero lodges; but, it is my firm belief, none of the lodges in America would go along with the principles ascribed to the Society of the Illuminati!

However, there is no doubt these same lodges you speak of, G.W., are aware of the Illuminati’s ideologies; but, I do not believe the Lodges of Free Mason in this country, would propagate their diabolical tenets!" adamantly said Washington.

It was apparent to George, G.W. Snyder was far more concerned with where the former president stood on the Illuminati matter rather than the effect the organization’s slither onto American soil might actually have on its people!

George chose to get to the bottom of his confusion with force. He withdrew a pistol from behind his back, cocked it, placed the barrel between Mr. Snyder’s eyes and then spoke.

I shall give you exactly thirty seconds to explain why I was summonsed here and the person’s name who told you to do it! You now have twenty five seconds to live!

Adam Weishaupt sent me to make you aware of something! You, Sir, have been chosen by your peers…throughout the world…to be our King!

Who set this meeting up? Fifteen seconds! seethed Washington.

Thomas Jefferson, Sir! snapped Snyder.

Ten seconds to go, G.W.!

Stop! Stop! Snyder dropped to his knees and then slid down into a prostrated position at the tips of Washington’s boots. With deep-chested sobs, he told America’s hero-like former first president, the truth!

As soon as G.W. Snyder completed his admission, George Washington sent a lead ball through his brain.

*  *  *  *  *

From the crest of Wilkes Street as it merges with Wolfe Lane, Washington was able to glass the east side of the academy without being seen by Alexandria’s nosey community members. Gossip was the ticket used for hierarchical height adjustments within the Washington square.

Having rock-solid knowledge of the former president’s affair with the academy’s principal, would hoist up that kind of citizen to somewhere close to Saint status. That’s why he and Ms. Hastings had always been careful.

The Alexandria Academy was a three-story brick structure serving on the first floor as the Alexandria Lodge of Freemasons and an English School teaching grammar, writing, arithmetic, and physical sciences to paying students.

Its second floor held the Learned Language School where the classical languages were taught. The academy’s third floor provided a safehouse for special individuals.

After six evenly spaced taps, Robert Adam, the Lodge’s Superintendent, unbolted the metal door leading from the academy’s stable to the basement headquarters known to the Culpers as, Blue Dawn.

It was there and much to Washington’s surprise, his lover Dorothy Hastings and Johann Adam Weishaupt were sitting behind a table. They had an offer to propose to him. Weishaupt was the proposer.

My plan, George, is to grasp your nobly heralded baton and to lift it from your mortal grip to the hearth of our utopian home! Estarcion, America’s new name, is to become the hub for a society who bases their decisions on Reason, allied with the spirit of the Golden Rule" of not doing to others what one would not wish to have done to oneself!

Therefore, I shall take your revered mantle and in return, I will promise to carry forward your good wishes of virtue, philanthropy, social justice and morality!" Johann Weishaupt then neatly sliced Washington’s larynx wide open.

Due to the precision in which Weishaupt flicked his scalpel beneath the chin and at the same time avoiding the messy arteries, Dorothy was able to make a perfect mold of George’s face. Adam was now safely hidden.

After gassing his accomplices, America’s first president, Ms. Hastings, and Robert Adam were burned in the incinerator Benjamin Franklin had engineered for the Alexandria Academy two years before. Adam Weishaupt then mounted George Washington’s horse, El Diablo and rode it toward Mount Vernon.

Sall Twine was curled up under the horse troughs. She had taken a tablespoon of turpentine and the same dose of quinine so the convulsions had started panging again.

If Mary Ball Washington ever caught wind of her son having intercourse with the darkies she would bust up Sall’s family and scatter them throughout Hell and half of Georgia. Sall thought.

That was why she didn’t say anything about the odd way the General rode into the plantation nor the fact that he didn’t drop off the money he had promised George (Sall’s husband). It was the gratuity for sneaking the Academy’s principal off the plantation grounds.

*  *  *  *  *

Adam had meticulously studied every inch of Washington’s plantation on the map his intelligence officers had provided to him. ‘It would be the small things, the private idiosyncrasies, the noticeable habits that would get him caught’, Weishaupt considered.

On the Monday following George Washington’s murder, four men walked down the Dragon Fly’s gangplank. They were to meet at Partidge Hill at 2200hrs..

Baron Adolph Freiherr von Knigge, Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick, William Spence and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe piled into a carriage rented under the name of George Washington. The men did not interact with one another.

Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick handed the dock constable a Spanish doubloon. Another coin was promised for a week’s worth of forgetfulness.

Partidge Hill Inn had certain odd features which set it aside from most other inns of its type. There were no noticeable doors to enter the abundant square footage within. Even the front porch provided no seeable way into the living quarters.

Puzzled, the men sat in the constable’s police wagon. No one said anything; they just watched and waited.

It was 10:00 o’clock when a rock wall rolled open. They took the rented two horse rig underground.

Von Knigge then stood up in the police wagon. He turned his body so as to better speak with the others seated near him. His jaw proudly jutted out as he spoke.

"Gentlemen, soon you will be introduced to the great sorcerer! No man actually knows who he is or even what he physically looks like but as we shall see, he is quite authentic!

Subtly, a greenish fog filled the underground space surrounding the occupied Baltimore police wagon. Within the swirls of their imaginations, the passengers as if embalmed, sat upright on the wagon’s benches. An image formed above them.

Baphomet, the pagan goat-headed deity, spoke. He held the Distorted Cross high above his long-horned head.

I believe you already know who I am! Our responsibility is to overthrow the Catholic Church, destroy democratic republicanism, and then replace it with a natavistic" philosophy held within the bounds of adjudged logistics and common sense.

All groups, religious or otherwise, will be prevented from their evolutionary climb. Man no longer will be shuffled around like overfed cattle but will soon be able to choose his own fate!" preached the well hiding Weishaupt through a megaphone.

Torches appearing to be stuck in drilled pockets into the cave’s sides, burst into flames. Scalding fire licks surrounded the newly inaugurated Illuminati Priests.

Like awakening from a dream, the four ‘priests’ found themselves returning the police wagon. The jolly constable waved goodbye as each (on foot) passenger left in separate directions. There were no ‘well wishes’ exchanged.

Weishaupt knew he would never be able to fool those close to George Washington. Therefore, he ordered Martha, George, Harry and Joseph, along with the rest of the house help, to go to Mary Balls place known by all as, Dogue Run Farm.

Johann Adam Weishaupt wearing her husband’s rubber face, explained to Martha he had been exposed to a child who had contracted the measles. For the safety of his loved ones, he felt he must quarantine himself for two weeks, he said.

Adam let a couple of days pass before gathering together Mount Vernon’s field workers. He wore George’s finest hunting jacket and was riding El Diablo.

The well-nourished slaves looked up at the General with big smiles on their faces. Not only had they been given a bag of silver coins, they also got temporary deeds to the Mansion House Farm. It was divided up into thirty seven family parcels.

Since none of them could read, Adam Weishaupt simply drew a map of the house and property and sectioned it out so each head of household could make their mark on his or her family’s apportionment.

The plantation house and outbuildings would belong to everyone. The only catch was, they had to turn the Mansion House Farm into an impenetrable fortress within five days; otherwise, the deal was off!

By four o’clock on Thursday afternoon, Johann Adam Weishaupt had the broad backed breeders in white priest’s robes. Each woolen garment had an upside down red cross sewn onto the front of it. A helmet and a cape went along with the uniform.

A steer was butchered, whiskey was served, daggers and pistols were formally presented. The negro crusaders were then drugged and sent out into the darkness to slaughter every living soul at the Dogue Run Farm.

Two nights later, the same band of silver helmeted marauders repeated their actions on Mason Island. It would soon become the Illuminati’s headquarters.

*  *  *  *  *

The very next night at precisely 0200hrs., a fiery object appeared over the village of Hull, England.

It hovered only a few feet over the Humber River.

An immense moon-like globe with a black bar across the center of its face illuminated the port town in blue light. A green gas fell over Hull.

Sculcoates Asylum’s population slept through the whole event except for a few inmates who were expecting an explosion. The wall surrounding the asylum disintegrated.

Following a terrific flash, those in on the bust out were beamed up into a cigar-shaped craft and flown to America.

*  *  *  *  *

Two fishermen while setting their nets, saw a sunny disc rise to the surface of the Potomac River. The sheriff wrote in his report the following:

"The fishermen stated, ‘a woman came from this previously submerged vehicle and walked across the placid water toward us. She spoke a language we had never heard before but for some reason she set us at ease.

At that point, the floating ship imploded and seven comet looking spheres disappeared into the morning sky. We both wanted to move but we couldn’t; however, neither of us were scared because the lady on the water told us we were safe.’"

*  *  *  *  *

Benjamin Hawkins had been up since three. He had questioned the fishermen until he was quite positive there was nothing more to extract from the two. As outlandish as the men’s tales were, the detective believed them.

He had been on wild-goose-chases before but this case was different. The fishermen’s faces were sunburned. Small bubbles just under their exposed skin told the story. Boils had erupted all over their bodies telling those medical examiners who looked at them, the boatmen had been exposed to an enormous blast of heat.

Singed eyebrows supported the physicians’ theories. The most confounding thing about the matter was, after the flying objects had passed over the heads of the fishermen, they were stripped of their memories. Fugue was what the doctors called it.

Hawkins had just taken his boots off, eaten a big breakfast and was planning on getting some sleep when he realized there was someone sitting in the corner of his bedroom. Had the visitor not illuminated his face while lighting a pipe, Ben more than likely would have shot him.

Hello, Number Sixty One. You’ve been a busy boy. Softly stated the President of the United States.

Yes, and I’m afraid the news I have is not good. I believe they’re here! exclaimed the federal agent.

I knew it this morning! People were claiming they saw fiery objects shoot through the sky! Some are saying the reckoning" is underway!

One of our local street vendors swore he saw Jesus riding a camel down the Federal Road less than six hours ago! At least their imaginations leave them vulnerable to logical answers. That may buy us some time!" chortled Thomas Jefferson.

Have we heard anything from Seekaboo? asked Hawkins.

Yes I have. We’ve learned that Karl Theodor, the Duke of Bavaria outlawed all secret societies in the Illuminati’s home base of Bavaria. His task force known as the Hermetics", were quite successful and as I understand, have pretty much cleaned his empire out of the devil worshiping bunch.

Unfortunately, Adam Weishaupt’s luck allowed him to barely escape his capture. The wicked bastard then went underground!

The Hermetics picked up his trail and traced his whereabouts to the Sculcoates Asylum in Hull, England. As you know, Seekaboo has tried to keep us informed but the cult’s diversionary tactics and its irregular disappearances have made his valuable contact with us a rarity." Said Jefferson.

So, you believe Weishaupt is now in Virginia? Asked Hawkins.

"I, of course, don’t know where Johann Weishaupt is; although, I’d bet the farm, he’s within a stones throw of Mount Vernon.

I’m afraid our mighty General has mellowed in his old age. Tragically, ole George has fallen in with bad company, Detective Hawkins.

Two days ago, William Spence and three other of his travel buddies walked down the Dragon Fly’s gangplank into oblivion. We don’t know where they went!

What makes me believe Weishaupt has chummed up with my old friend, George Washington is because William Spence was recently employed by the Washington families to landscape their properties." exclaimed Jefferson.

Mister President, what action should I take if I run into Weishaupt and his band of merry men? asked Hawkins in a wicked tone.

Shovel quickly and whistle even louder, Ben! laughingly stated Jefferson.

*  *  *  *  *

Thursday was the day in which Christ was supposedly crucified or so the sailors’ superstition goes. Consequently, Hawkins knew it was bad luck to leave out on Thursdays and therefore was aware he had time to ride by his house to pick up a few things he was going to need.

Sometimes an investigation took three or four days so he had to make preparations for that. His yearning for rest had been replaced by electrifying adrenalin rushes. ‘This was his chance’, Ben hoped.

The Dragon Fly was docked at Fells Point and had been for the previous seventy two hours. It had not left its moorings since.

As far as the ship’s description, it was a normal transport craft primarily used for bringing dry goods and more expensive things to the American merchants who in turn, would sell the imports to the increasing numbers of European aristocrats’ making their new homes in the coastal cities. Big money started coming into the United States.

The Dragon Fly had captured the reputation as being the most luxurious transatlantic cruise ship in the world. ‘Not a common way to get here for a gardener’, mused Detective Hawkins.

Although there was an echo bouncing back from the wheelhouse, nothing gave Ben the impression anyone was on the ship. Right off, he smelled stale whiskey. ‘Of course people drank on cruise ships!’ Ben, whispered to himself.

‘Okay, so people would have to mix and mingle over a month-long cruise together. Folks would want to scribble down the names and addresses of fellow passengers if for no other reason but for a souvenir. People are like that.

But, where could they have gone from here?’, Ben pondered.

Twelve staterooms. None used.

Very little food had been taken from the galley. What had been stored in the dry bins looked old. There was fingerprint less dust on the jars.

The ship’s coal stoves were below room temperature. Hawkins carefully made his way down the steps into its hold. A good lantern and sturdy rails made it practically effortless to get to the transport compartments.

Some old furniture and a stack of cracked mirrors were all there was to see. Ben heard footsteps above him.

"She’s a mighty good ship, she is. This baby and I have traveled all over the world together, we have.

It may sound silly to you, young fellow, but we’ve grown close over the years, she and I have. Yep, we’ve been through a lot, the ole Dragon Fly and me.

Mister, excuse my bluntness but what do you want? It’s against the law to trespass on a man’s docked ship, you know!" said the dark face from the upper deck.

I am Detective Benjamin Hawkins of the United States Government. I am looking for a Captain Jeremiah Yellott, the owner of the Dragon Fly. Would you know where I might be able to get in touch with him? asked the detective.

"Well, that’s me but let me tell you right up front, I do not cotton to anyone including government men, snooping around my property!

State your business, climb out of there and then get the hell off my ship!" yelled Captain Yellott.

When they had walked back down to where the official carriage was parked, Benjamin in a brotherly way, pulled the jittery sea captain close to him as if he were hugging the man farewell but then, whispered in the man’s ear.

"I am here to help you. Let me do so!

More than likely we are being watched. Invite me to your home, it’s right up the street, I believe." Pleaded Detective Hawkins.

Yellott declined Benjamin’s offer and then sheepishly asked him to leave. With a slight smile on his face, he thanked the detective and shook his hand while swiftly shoving a gold statuette into the government man’s breast pocket.

The ancient sea captain turned and ran up Old Joppa Road. A minute later, he was out of Hawkins’s sight. It was noon.

Ben examined the tiny statue Jeremiah had dropped into his uniform’s pocket. ‘It was a Shaman holding a couple of ceremonial shakers’, he thought.

Based on his lack of clues, his first shot at a real federal investigation would end with a dismal climax. Hawkins knew, if he couldn’t catch ahold of at least a hint of some criminal wrongdoing, Jefferson would bring someone else in. All he had so far, was a golden Shaman and a hunch.

Spurrier’s Tavern was no more than an hour’s ride from Fells Point. If a man wanted to find out something about someone’s past or needed some information about an individual, there was only one place to go on that part of the eastern seaboard, Spurrier’s Tavern.

Before the detective reported back to Jefferson, he had to have something substantial to speak with him about. A ghost ship wasn’t a bad start but he needed one hell of a lot more evidence than that!

It was two o’clock in the afternoon when Detective Hawkins ordered a bottle of scotch to the tavern’s library. Several older gentlemen were helping him to matchup his gold Shaman with drawings thought to depict other African jewelry pieces by their shapes and molding techniques. They came up with nothing.

Hawkins’s luck changed while he was paying off his tab. A Johann Wolfgang von Goethe offered Ben a limp handshake.

Both men were Masons as identified by their flicking middle fingers tickling the other’s palm. That signification has been with them since the Middle Ages. It was a way in which good men could recognize others of their ilk.

Hawkins gleaned as much as he could from their interlude. He noticed things like the smell of opium on von Goethe’s once expensive coat and that his shoes were spattered with red dust. More was sniffed out after Johann Wolfgang spoke.

"Forgive me, Brother, but I overheard the responses given to you by those dilatants scamming you for more of the fine whiskey they ladled down their throats at your expense!

For the two bottles of scotch you wasted on them, I’d of told you the whole story as to how a Captain Jeremiah Yellott came into possession of the golden Shaman you once had in your breast pocket of which, is now in mine!" teasingly said Johann von Goethe.

The utterly exasperated detective felt his breast pocket. Sure enough, he no longer had it!

In an almost knee-jerk reaction, Hawkins reached for his four-barreled pistol tucked within his shoulder holster. His firearm was also, gone! Wolfgang began laughing.

This ‘gold Shaman’ your tavern anthropologists found such a conundrum, in actuality is…. Wolfgang removed the three inch high statue from his own breast pocket and handed it back to it’s last handler and continued speaking…something once belonging to a friend of mine.

"What is it? Pushed Hawkins.

My fellow Mason, it is a gift from ‘the old man of the mountain’!

What is the purpose of this ‘gift’?

Brother, it is everything! Whispered Wolfgang.

"Mister von Goethe, I do not mean to be rude to you but to be very frank, I have little time to spend discussing these mysterious wonders!

I’m afraid I need to get back to my office so, if I may, I’d like my pistol back."

Of course, how thoughtless of me! Said Wolfgang as Ben’s pistol rose into the air paused for about three seconds, and then slid beneath the detective’s arm and back into his shoulder holster!

Wolfgang then dissipated into thin air. Much to Benjamin’s surprise, the man left no lingering smells. It was as if he had never been there or like it had been a dream.

Jefferson’s inauguration was underway. The possibility of getting a personal appointment with him was nil; but, Detective Hawkins needed permission to expand his investigation.

After a good night’s sleep in a forgotten number of days, Benjamin Hawkins met with Thomas Jefferson again. Their discussion was brief but poignant.

The United States is in big trouble. It is thought, the Niburians have broken their three way agreement with the Mason’s and the Cerians. If that is the case then America’s center of government is now under assault! Said the President.

*  *  *  *  *

When Mount Vernon came into view just over the mountain where the estate’s property boundary leaped into the sky, Ben Hawkins was taken back by the vastness of Washington’s family’s holdings.

Field upon field all spectacularly producing fruits and vegetables of assorted types were backdropped by a panorama of splendid geography. Red winged blackbirds jealously protecting their territories alongside fertile streams, set the standard for a gorgeous plantation.

Waterfalls and meticulously manicured riding trails with paralleling wheat fields, seemed to lengthen the distance to the big house. Ben rode down the freshly raked driveway toward the place where he saw a moving human being.

"Good morning, might I trouble you for a drink of water for this poor beast? She’s getting sort of old and I have to rest her more often these days.

She’s like a family member to me; I hate what time always seems to do to the things we love! Say, would you happen to know a Mister William Spence?" Queried Hawkins.

Sall, negro George’s wife, kept hoeing a garden size plot of ground. She never looked up at Ben, the twenty-some year old slave pretended to be deaf, or at least that’s what Detective Hawkins thought at the time.

He got off of his horse and then approached the ambivalent girl. Her eyes looked like black marbles, Sall’s complexion was ashen.

She was for sure, a ‘mind-dead’ woman just hoeing a useless spot of earth. Ben saw some smoke. It was about a half mile away.

What had once been a rock barn was now a deep hole. Hawkins guessed it was a crater. Piles of ashes still smoking, emitted a reddish dust which smelled like pine tar.

There were no people nor skittering chickens visible. The wind’s sound was the only abbreviating agent of silence.

Ben kicked his horse in the ribs, he pointed her toward the Dogue Run Farm.

When he and gypsy arrived at Mary Ball’s plantation, they found the exact same scenario…nothing! Just a big smoking pit. ‘Inauguration ball or not, he had to speak with the president!’

It was eight o’clock by the time the federal agent made it to the Capitol Building’s front gate. Two guards required him to dismount.

They frisked him thoroughly and then one of the door goons took gypsy away. The other soldier escorted Hawkins toward the ballroom’s entranceway.

A butler opened the door. Music filled the street outside but only for a second or two.

The ballroom’s vaulted ceilings made the couples dancing appear to be metal ‘people’ belonging in a toy box. Their movements although well practiced, somehow made Ben think of Nero and his fiddle.

Such foolish yet dangerous men and women all spinning around and keeping the beat with the others. They were so preposterously fake. He saw the President.

Sir, may I have a word with you? Fretfully requested the dressed down gumshoe.

By twice flicking his left wrist, Thomas Jefferson’s personal security guards dragged Benjamin out of the ballroom feet first. They took him down two flights of stairs and shoved the battered sleuth into the basement’s coal bin.

There was very little light. As Hawkins put his ear against the ballroom’s chimney, he heard Jefferson delivering his second inaugural address of the day. The newly elected president was finishing up.

From the guidance given to us through revolution and reformation, the wisdom of our sages and blood of our heroes all for the devotion to HIM", we hope we shall never wander far from our creed even during moments of error or alarm.

We have our texts of civil instructions. We know what we were destined to do! Let us retrace our steps! Let us gain even a higher road than before, a freeway to peace, liberty, and safety and do it without the sword but with the peaceable instrument of rational. Let them be who they wish to be!

We will provide all they need…..they give us their brawn. Estarcion then, will continue to be the lucrative mineral producer as it has been for so many thousands of years….Our responsibility is to keep it under control, to squelch adversarial movements against us, to stamp out all organizations requiring uniformity of actions; such as, and mostly, churches and especially the Catholic ones!

Universities who discourage scientific investigation rather than the acceptance of the doctrines, they must go. Governments, large or local, those substituting common sense for tradition will be the only societal conglomerates allowed further existence." Voraciously screamed Jefferson.

The music started up again. Ben could hear them dancing and wondered if they were going to kill him.

About midnight, the third president of the United States came down the coal bin’s rickety stairs. On one knee, he apologized profusely for the goat-rope that had occurred upstairs.

Even his guardsmen shook the senior detective’s hand and offered their scripted apologies. Ben had not just fallen off of a cabbage wagon as the saying goes, he of all people who should have known better, had fallen into a den of vipers.

Hawkins made every attempt possible to neutralize the toxic situation. He jubilantly greeted his boss.

Tom, I congratulate you! Your predecessor almost got himself killed a few of times because of his loose concerns. Said Hawkins.

Yes, ole ‘Quincy’ would of bought the farm if it hadn’t been for some wet powder in an assassin’s rifle. And, if I’m remembering correctly, I believe that was why his inaugural address was cancelled! responded the person pretending to be the President.

Sir, could we speak in private, I’ve got one hell of a lot to tell you?" baited Benjamin.

The detective and the President sat alone in the coal bin. Ben told him everything; he left nothing out except for two things. Hawkins never mentioned the golden Shaman nor the interaction with Wolfgang.

Do you have that golden statuette on you? Pointedly asked Jefferson. He was not smiling.

No" to your question, Sir. Captain Yellott ran away with it!

My question, now, is, Mister President, ‘Where do you want me to start’?

The Dragon Fly is where it seems to have begun; but, the ‘why there’ and the ‘what for’ questions lead me to hypothesize that the end of this mystery-ball will roll out on Mount Vernon! Stated the imitation Thomas Jefferson.

"Sir, may I be brutally honest? Asked the special agent intentionally breaking the conversation’s candor.

Of course, Ben, we’ve been friends for years. Speak your mind. Softly answered Jefferson.

"Very well. I strongly suspect our founding father, George Washington is somehow mixed up with this anticipated Illuminati invasion; but, I don’t see the group as an invader at all, Thomas!

In my professional opinion, Sir, I believe the Illuminati were forced out of Europe. Washington in his mellowing years, assumed they were nothing more than an ancient offshoot of those like the Masons, also in constant search of the Holy Grail.

More than likely, he offered to make a home for the ‘refugees’ and they took him up on it. The poor fellow in my opinion, is as innocent as a lamb but unfortunately, quite dead, I’m afraid." Darkly stated the federal agent.

As Benjamin Hawkins was walking up the steps leading toward the ballroom’s floor, he stopped in his tracks and turned toward the gang of men looking up at him. With ‘molasses’ oozing from every vowel, he boldly spoke to his boss.

President Jefferson, I intend to protect you and your office with my life! If Washington is mixed up with this, T.J., should I whistle?

Jefferson nodded.

Feeling as if he had gotten a last minute reprieve from the gallows, Hawkins turned gypsy toward the northeast. Spurrier’s Tavern felt like the safest place to go.

*  *  *  *  *

It was two o’clock when Hawkins got to the tavern. Mr. Spurrier was still up shining glasses from behind the bar. He spoke first.

"Well, don’t we have a night owl up and about! Come on in! Could I pour you a drink or fix you a little something to eat?

My oven has gone out but I have all kinds of sandwich makings. Pickled herring is the favorite around here! Do you need a room?" asked the tavern’s manager.

‘Yes’, to all of your questions, Mister Spurrier, but before I lug my things upstairs…. as Benjamin was saying before he was interrupted.

You are Detective Benjamin Hawkins aren’t you?

Spurrier’s question alarmed Ben. In response, the detective ignored the innkeeper’s query and continued with his original requests.

I would like a bottle of scotch, biscuits with the herring you mentioned, the key to my room, and an apology for not minding your own business! curtly snapped Ben Hawkins.

"My mistake, Sir, I misspoke! Flappingly said Mister Spurrier.

Look, Sir, forgive my boorishness. I’ve had a terrible day; anyway, I was going to ask you, if you remember a man who goes by the name of Wolfgang" or something like that?

He was here just day before yesterday, around midday, I believe. A tall, striking man, he was!" Formally inquired the Culper.

As I rudely interrupted you to say, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe", the Spurrier’s Tavern’s new owner, expected your return today!

You have the bottom floor suite at the rear of the building. I am sure you will find it an accommodation fit for a king!" boasted the tavern’s seller.

Hawkins was stunned. In a hangdog fashion, he turned toward Spurrier’s Inn’s former owner, shook his hand, apologized for the second time and then asked where Wolfgang might be.

The answer he got made Hawkins almost choke on his pickled herring biscuit.

He’s waiting for you in your quarters, Sir. Room #101.

The agent removed his pistol from its holster as soon as he entered the hallway ending at his room. It was already ajar so his key wasn’t necessary.

Johann von Goethe had taken a chill off the room’s temperature by lighting a mound of coal in the suite’s fireplace. Two glasses were setting on the breakfast table.

Wolfgang was seated by the hissing blue fire. He had taken his boots off and was drying their insides out.

Hawkins noticed a chalky red clay caked on von Goethe’s boots’ heels. He felt for his pistol tucked behind his back. It was still there. Ben spoke first.

I was hoping to find you here. I believe I am going to need your help!

I thought you might. I’m sorry President Jefferson disappointed you! Sincerely stated Wolfgang.

He then stood, filled both glasses to the